Twisted (25 page)

Holy crap … it’s sore … please don’t hurt me any more … please let me go …

I don’t know how long we were on the road, but the quiet, fresh air and noises of the crickets tell me that we are somewhere outside Istanbul, probably in one of the nearby villages.

Please … please … please … somebody … help me …

I hear them speak Turkish but the inflamed pulse in my head makes it impossible for me to concentrate and catch what they are talking about.

We walk up a short flight of stairs that probably leads into a dwelling. I am too weak to lift up my head but even hanging upside down I can see the doorframe, the dark corridor, the badly lit room with a couch and chairs. My carrier takes a few more steps and then throws me off his shoulder onto the floor. My head hits the floor; a loud ‘Aaargh!’ breaks through my lungs, followed by a sprinkle of tears of agony and despair.

The one that was driving approaches me and stands so close that the toe of his shoe touches my face.

‘You will have to be a good girl tonight, my darling …’ He squats, grabs my hair in a fist, pulls my head up, turning my face to his, and smirks, ‘I must tell you I don’t like noisy little whores. Although you are lucky to have hit the jackpot tonight, to find out what it feels like when four horny dicks are digging each of your holes at the same time.’ The bastard interrupts himself with evil laughter, looking very pleased with his little psycho speech. ‘And most likely you will not enjoy it much, but I warn you … keep it quiet and you may stay alive.’

‘Hey, Nizam,’ Mehmet’s voice calls from another room. ‘Get in here and have a few drinks with your friends. Leave that whore alone for now. We have the whole night ahead of us.’ I hear laughter and the clinks of glasses.

Before he gets up, he squeezes my hair harder, distorting my face to an excruciating grimace while showing me his teeth. ‘You will have to be patient, my darling.’ He hurls my head back so it hits the floor and knocks me out cold again …

A splash of cold water onto my face brings me back to consciousness. I return to the horrifying reality very slowly, feeling more and more pain with every second.

‘Stay still, Julia.’ I recognise Mehmet’s voice. It’s calm and friendly. He is sitting on the couch with his elbows resting on his knees and looking down at me, ‘It’s going to be a long and rough night for you, so let me help you to reduce the pain you are about to go through. Besides, it looks like your nose is broken so sniffing is not an option for you right now.’

There is a small black bag in his hands. He unzips it and takes out a syringe with a rubber tube. I shrug away in a weak attempt to object, but the movement only whips up my agony.

He cords my arm and gently injects me, disregarding my faint supplication that’s smeared with the blood and tears from my face.

The warm and persistent wave enters my body, as if it’s not a two-mil syringe but a bathtub filled with bubbly hot water that’s been shot inside me. I close my eyes and drown in a pleasant world, one so generously quick to take over the reality that’s poisoned with terror and suffering.

* * *

Hi my Poppy-seed,

What is going on? You are really making me worry now
.

You don’t answer my emails any more. I tried to call you today too and your cell is off. Please answer me asap.

We are back home. So happy to see mom and papa
.

The only thing that keeps me sleepless is you
.

Please Jul! Let me know what is going on.

Love you a lot.

xxx

I come alive, shivering. I am freezing. It is so cold that my numb body is unbearably sore. I am lying on the ground and bright sunlight is hurting my eyes. As I force myself to lift up my head, in extreme pain, I see nothing but miles of tall, dry grass around me.

I look down at myself. My sweater is ripped in a few places. My skinny jeans’ fly is not closed. They are not worn properly, hanging below my thighs. There are no panties or shoes at all. I am camouflaged with stains of blood and mud. I don’t even want to imagine what my face looks like – it’s bloated and covered with curdling blood, which I feel as I wince from the sun’s rays.

The memories of last night start flashing through my head, sharp, distressing.

They didn’t kill me … I am alive …

Despite that I am cold, hungry, injured, and have no idea where I am. I cannot believe I am alive. I don’t remember much of what happened after I was shot with crack or heroin, except for some short moments of coming back to consciousness and witnessing every kind of twisted sexual abuse they were coming up with.

The terror, humiliation and pain were all damaging, but the worst experience, it turned out, was the fear of death and then, when the terror exhausted me completely, the comprehension and acceptance of the fact that I was going to die. I guess now I know that there is only one thing that can be worse than death, and that is to wait for it – the absolute certainty that your life is over while you are still breathing.

I start crying, but my body is so dehydrated that there are no tears. As I slowly get off the ground and pull my pants up, I hear the noise. It takes me some time to understand where it comes from. There is a road! And there are cars! I can call for help!

I walk quickly, ignoring the piercing ache that each step brings me. I hug myself, trying to warm up and stop the shivers, which pitilessly worsen the pain.

I wave, but none of the first three passing cars stops. My desperation and self-pity turns my tearless weeping into a wild howl. My vision is blurring, so I feel even more lost and isolated than before. I try to wave more cars down but with no success, until I run into a police car, which pulls off as soon as the cops see me.

‘Ma’am, are you all right?’ One of the policemen hurriedly gets out of the car and walks towards me. ‘What happened, ma’am? Do you need us to take you to the hospital?’

I want to reply yes, but a weird, persistent rumble plugs my ears and the darkness blinds my eyes, inflating me with unpleasant feeling …

I must have passed out. The next thing I see is an upside down newspaper folded in the back pocket of the front car seat and the sleeve of a police uniform. I am lying on the back seat with my head hanging down off it. I close my eyes again and try to focus on what they are talking about, activating all my brain cells to be able to translate from Turkish.

‘Julia Lazar. Year of birth 1983. Ukraine.’ The uniform sleeve is reading aloud from the paper in his hand.

‘There is no way we are taking her to the hospital. She is just a stoned Ukrainian hooker. Aliens department,’ the one in the driver’s seat replies.

They had found the copy of my passport in the back pocket of my jeans.

Crap. This cannot keep happening to me.

I sit up and lie back down straight away, fighting the dizziness.

‘I need help. I didn’t do anything wrong. They hijacked and raped me.’

‘Don’t even try,’ one of them interrupts me, then continues speaking Turkish, with a tiresome tone to his voice. ‘First, we do not speak English. Second, we deal with
orospu
²³
like you every day, and I have no desire to listen to your bullshit right now. So shut up.’

An hour later, after being fingerprinted and signing some papers I didn’t even understand, I am jailed in a cell with another five women. I know all of them speak Russian, although none of them have said a word. The only two short benches are occupied by four of them, two on each side, and the fifth one is just sitting on the floor, opposite a little smelly loo, which is separated from the cell by a short brick wall.

I go to the free space against the wall, drop myself onto the floor, and close my eyes.

I keep waking up. I am in so much pain that even when my exhausted body fades into a short and troubled sleep, my mind doesn’t switch off; it keeps throwing me into a mass of agony. On top of my injuries, the withdrawal symptoms are worsening. My skin is dreadfully sensitive and it feels like my blood is boiling, as if I am burning alive.

The hard, cold concrete floor makes my state deteriorate even more. Every time I move my joints, unconsciously seeking relief, it feels like they will crack into pieces.

I am dying … or I wish I would just die …that this suffering would end … not even another second …

The desperate thoughts of how good it would be if those bastards had killed me while I was still high are fucking me up completely. I can’t endure it … no more … I need some drugs … not another second! I can’t!

I get up, fighting the severe dizziness, and step to the cell bars. ‘Someone, I need help! Please … I need a doctor!’ I shout to nowhere with a hoarse voice.

It’s dark and quiet. Probably night-time now.

I hear nothing in response and try again, louder. ‘I need a doctor! Help me please!’

‘Oh just shut up!’ one of my cellmates sluggishly objects. ‘No one will come to rescue you, Princess, so stay quiet and let us sleep.’

I step back from the bars, rubbing my arms and shoulders, trying to ease the burning sensation on my skin.

‘For how long will they keep us here?’ I say to the darkness, towards the voice of the woman.

‘Nobody knows,’ she responds in the same sleepy manner. ‘We stay here until they find a place on the bus or ship to deport us. It could take a day or a week. Is it your first time?’

I don’t answer, swallowed up by an extreme desperation. I need a dose and there is no way I can get it here. The withdrawal is getting worse and worse, and I don’t know if I can take it anymore.

I go back to my place at the wall, lean against it and slowly slide down to the floor, letting the hot stream of silent tears abundantly wash my face.

I don’t know how long I sit there for, staring into the darkness, trying to talk myself through. I force myself to think the only thought that my brain is capable of accepting: that, no matter how painful it is now, it won’t go on forever. Until I pass out …

The dry cough that burns my lungs wakes me. My body is shivering. I have a fever. I don’t know if it is the withdrawal that’s mutated into some kind of cold or flu, or if I’m sick for real from lying on the cold floor for so long. I open my eyes. There is half a slice of white bread on the floor and a bottle of water next to me. I greedily eat it without looking around, ignoring the pain in my face that the chewing is causing, then close my eyes and go back to sleep.

* * *

What is happening Jul?

Are you in trouble?

I managed to call Inna. She told me a lot of things, but I didn’t believe her. She is just a jealous alky!

I am worried. It has been two weeks since your last email. And your phone is dead! Please reply to me as soon as you can.

We love you very much …

xxx

The doorbell rings, interrupting me from finishing my homework, which I’ve been trying to get out of the way for the last hour already. It’s the beginning of May. Summer has come early. It is hot and seductively pleasant outside. But I have a Chemistry test tomorrow and cannot understand a word I am reading in my textbook.

All that seventh-graders can think about is dating and partying. Why can’t adults simply understand that and leave dodgy things like physics and chemistry out of our curriculum?